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and barking and chasing and skidding, and by the time Dad gets out our sled, there are dog-crazy tracks all over the place.
    Dara Lynn drags the sled to the top of our hill and I haul up Becky. I settle myself on the sled, Becky between my knees, heels dug deep in the snow. The plan is that Dara Lynn’ll give us a push, then jump on behind me, but when I lift my feet and Dara Lynn pushes, she goes down on her knees and the sled takes off without her, Dara Lynn screechin’ bloody murder.
    I take Becky and the sled back up and this time Dara Lynn gets in the middle and I crawl on behind. We are flying down that hill, coming to a stop between the henhouse and the shed. We’ve just started back up for a third time when the crack of a rifle sings out, then another. Way up at the top of our hill, we see a buck go leaping across the field.
    â€œMarty!” Dad yells from the doorway. “You kids get in here! Now!”
    We leave the sled where it is, and run for the house. We know it’s not Judd Travers up there, but even though we got the woods posted, there are always other hunters, other rifles.
    â€œI wish this season was over,” says Ma, closing the door behind us.

Six
    I t stays cold and windy, so David Howard don’t come to check out the creek bank like he’d said. We decide we’ll wait till after Christmas.
    Usually our family cuts our own pine tree to bring inside, but this year—with us driving to Clarksburg and all—Dad says why don’t we just string lights on the cedar outside the window? No need to do all that decorating when we won’t be here on Christmas Day.
    Becky hasn’t had enough Decembers yet to care, but Dara Lynn sets up a bellow could’ve attracted a moose.
    â€œWe have to sit outside and open our presents in the snow?” she wails.
    But there’s new snow come Christmas Eve, and the lights of the tree shine on the ice and make a prettier tree than we ever had inside.
    So we just sit at the living room window Christmas morning,eating our pancakes and opening our gifts. Ma loves the cassette I give her, Dad uses my mug for his coffee, Becky eats her Whitman’s chocolates, and Dara Lynn even likes the cocoa. I bought a box of doggie treats for Shiloh, and we hide them under all the wrapping paper. He goes nuts trying to trace the smell. Paper and ribbon all over the place. He finds the box and I toss the treats up in the air, one at a time—make him snap at them. Whew! That dog’s breath is somethin’!
    Ma and Dad give me a new pair of jeans, a Western shirt, and a Pittsburgh Steelers watch.
    We change our clothes to go to Aunt Hettie’s and, leavin’ Shiloh behind, climb in the Jeep. He don’t like it one bit when we go off without him; follows the Jeep right down to the road, like any minute we’re going to realize we left the most important thing and whistle for him to climb in. When we don’t, he trots back up to the house, tail between his legs. I sure do wish dogs could understand English, you could explain things to ’em.
    I don’t like Shiloh bein’ left outside during hunting season, but Ma says it’s good to have a dog guarding your house when you’re away. Anybody come up our drive with the wrong idea in mind, he might think twice if a barking dog comes out to meet him.
    We’re only a couple miles down the road when Dara Lynn’s got to go to the toilet.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake,” Ma scolds. “If it was Becky, I could understand, but you’re almost eight now, Dara Lynn!”
    â€œIt’s not like I planned it,” she shoots back, and we got to stop at Sweeneys’ house, ask if we can use their bathroom. Ma takes Becky in, too, for good measure, and I stay in the car with Dad, my faced turned toward Middle Island Creek, embarrassed.
    We start off again, Becky’s car seat in the middle of the back so’s to separate me and Dara Lynn.